I bet Brett would have been a brilliant student. A terrific tennis player, too.

People gather at my aunt and uncle’s house. Sitting in one of the rusty chairs on the small back patio, I smoke the umpteenth cigarette of the day. My throat is raw and my chest feels full of sludge, but smoking helps dull the gnawing craving for food.

In the yellow ashtray on the filmy-glass table, the remains of unfiltered cigarette butts still float in their brownish broth. The breeze blows long thin needles out of the trees and onto the ground. The backyard is small, no more than a few dozen feet on each side. When Barry and I were younger and did on occasion play together, it was either basketball in the driveway or football or baseball on the street.

The patio door opens, and Tinsley comes out. The scent of patchouli whisks past when she sits. I offer her a Marlboro, but she taps a cigarette from a blue pack of Gauloises. I cup my hands to protect the flame while she lights her cigarette, then catch a whiff of strong, pungent smoke.

“I’m so sorry, Lucas. It’s . . . so hard to believe.”

Even at the age of eighteen, I’m beginning to see how we meander along a winding path filled with blind corners and switchbacks, at times thinking we’re dealing with some pretty heavy shit (broken hearts / draft / college / future?). Then the phone rings or there’s a knock on the door. And it’s instant implosion. The path vanishes into a vacuum that nothing can fill. Part of you is snatched away. Suddenly, nothing you thought of as heavy shit before even comes close.

Tinsley exhales. Like Barry’s life, smoke races away on the breeze. It doesn’t seem possible that someone you’ve grown up with, someone you’ve known for so long, someone you spent so much time comparing yourself to, can suddenly not be there.

The wind rattles the tree branches. More long brown pine needles sprinkle down. Tinsley says, “I’m going to Paris.”

“With Bernard?” I ask.

“Bien sûr. But also to study. Have you heard of Henri Cartier-Bresson? They say he’s the father of photojournalism.”

“Sounds very cool, but what about your mom?”

“I think it’s a blessing in disguise for her. I’ll be out of the house and she can tell her friends that I’m studying abroad. It’s so”— she strikes a pose and bats her eyes — “so terribly chic.”

Inhale, exhale. My throat feels like sandpaper. My stomach growls and cries. Tinsley’s long yellow hair lifts on the breeze and settles.

“You’re not angry, are you?” she asks.